Watson, Holmes and Who?
by LexieBird
Summary: Sherlock and John take on a new case where a woman has died, with apparently no cause of death. Sherlock thinks this case will be dull as ever, but what happens when they discover who else is investigating alongside them?
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, have you seen this?" Asked John Watson, sitting at his computer.  
"It's your computer." Said Sherlock dryly.  
"Yes, but there's an email from Detective Lestrade. Sent it to me because he thought you might ignore it." He said. "They've found a dead woman. She was having a party, then disappeared. Some friends found her on her bed, but they thought she was just asleep. Wasn't until the next morning that they realised she was dead. He says the police are baffled, and they need your help."  
"They always do." Replied Sherlock. He sighed. "Perhaps we'll go have a look. Should be dull, but there's nothing else on."

Sherlock and John walked into the dead woman's bedroom, where she still lay on her bed.  
"Here she is. Sophie Dove, died late last night."  
"How'd she die?" Asked John. The lady looked uncomfortable.  
"We don't know, that's the thing. There's no cause." Sherlock huffed in a clearly disbelieving way and began to examine the body.  
"Alcohol, or poison?" Suggested John, giving the body a quick medical examination himself. It was true, there were no physical signs of death, at least.  
"We checked. There's some alcohol in her system, but barely enough to make her woozy, let alone kill her. No poisons, toxins, diseases or anything." The three looked up as a new person entered the room, followed by a policeman, who was looking rather confused.  
"It's okay, okay, I'm from Scotland Yard, see?" Said the newcomer, showing the guard his badge. The man waved it around, showing it to everyone in the room. The policeman shrugged, then left. "I'm here to investigate Ms. Dove's death - or are you two already on it?" He asked, turning to John and Sherlock. "Though you don't look very Scotland Yard." He added.  
"Nor do you." Said Sherlock, his eyes raking over the man. He took in his worn out Converses, long overcoat and brown suit, his messy brown hair and dark eyes.  
"I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. We're looking into it, yes."  
"Not with Scotland Yard, but you have just about as much authority as them." Said the man, stroking his chin. "I'm the Doctor - wait, did you say John Watson and _Sherlock Holmes?_" He asked, incredulous. He smiled, then started laughing.  
"Yes, that's our names. And, sorry, doctor who?" Asked John, confused.  
"No, nobody. Just the Doctor." He said distractedly. "Is that just a coincidence? Holmes and Watson, investigating a murder, or - wait. Have you heard of a man called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?" He asked.  
"No, never." Replied John.  
"Ah, right. I forgot, those books came from… somewhere else." The Doctor said, remembering picking up the Sherlock Holmes books from a different universe. He cleared his throat. "Well then, Sherlock Holmes, what have we got?"

The Doctor strode over to the body, examining it.  
"You tell me, Doctor." Said Sherlock dryly. The Doctor smiled. That was clearly a challenge. He pulled out his glasses, put them on, and walked up and down the bed, taking in everything he could.  
"Let's see… The body been touched?" He asked, looking up.  
"No, Sherlock doesn't like it if we do." Said the lady, slightly unhappy. The Doctor smiled.  
"Right then. Left handed, not married, though probably wants to be, worked for some government organisation, quite high ranking, I think, but very secretive. Job involved not much standing, but typing, ooh, _lots _of typing. Had a nephew who she visited every weekend and liked bowling, but bowled with her right hand." The Doctor looked at Sherlock, smiling slightly smugly. "Did I get it all?" He asked innocently.

John stared at the two of them, eyebrows raised.  
"Just about." Said Sherlock, trying to look unsurprised - which really wasn't too hard, as he had expected something along these lines. The Doctor raised his eyebrows.  
"Just about?" He asked.  
"You didn't get the chemicals." He pointed out. The Doctor looked up and down the body, peering at it intensely.  
"Ohhh! Yes, of course, the hair. Embarrassing, that I missed that. But typing, and chemicals… ooh, oh!" He said, grinning. "Oh, yes, and you said there was no cause, which is to be expected, of course!"  
"You'd expect there to be no cause of death?" Asked John, skeptical.  
"Well, if the murderer was clever. I think I get why I'm here now." The Doctor grinned.  
"Who on Earth are you?" Asked John, frowning.  
"That is a good question. I know every detective in this area, and 'the Doctor' certainly isn't one of them." Said Sherlock.  
"Oh, come on, you're _Sherlock Homes_! What can you deduce about me? I bet you've been trying. Much luck?" Said the Doctor, spreading his arms wide, giving Sherlock a good veiw of his whole body. Just then, Detective Lestrade entered, pushing the Doctor aside to talk to Sherlock.  
"What've you got for me, Sherlock, please tell me you've worked it out."  
"Nothing of use just yet." Said Sherlock, sounding bored again. "Though, do you know that man there?" He asked, pointing to the Doctor. Lestrade shook his head.  
"Nope. Why?" He asked.  
"Says he's with Scotland Yard. Had a badge and everything." Said John. Lestrade turned to face the Doctor.  
"Have you been impersonating an officer?" He said severely. The Doctor smiled slightly.  
"No, nope, law-abiding citizen, that's me! God save the Queen, all that - do you want me to get my credentials?" He said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over to Lestrade, who looked at it closely.  
"You're with the secret service?" He asked.  
"If that's what it says, then yes."  
"What are you doing on this case?" He asked.  
"Oh, you know, taking some time off, that kind of thing." Said the Doctor dismissively as the paper was passed around to John, then to Sherlock.  
"John, this paper's blank." He said quietly, but the Doctor heard, even if Lestrade didn't.  
"No, Sherlock, look. 'Agent John Smith, known as the Doctor', see?" He said, pointing to a spot on the blank paper. The Doctor walked over to them, took the paper back and whispered to Sherlock, "I'll explain in a sec."  
"How would you like to come back to our place this afternoon, and collaborate on the case?" Asked Sherlock, curious. "John and I share a flat. 221b Baker Street." The Doctor grinned.  
"221b Baker Street? Really? That's brilliant. I'd love to."

"So, come on then. How'd you know." Said John, resigned, as he climbed into the taxi. It sounded like this was some kind of normal occurrence.  
"Nails on the left hand were far more worn than the right; left handed. No wedding ring. Neat, nondescript clothes, expensive, employee card in the left pocket with a serial code that could only belong to a government organisation. Not much information on the card, though, so secretive. Weak legs, saying she sat around a lot, with worn out fingers and strong wrists; therefore a typist. Nephew was in the picture frame on her dresser, and her right hand was worn in spots only caused by regular bowling. Hair was thinned out, skin a bit dry and unhealthy, so she worked with chemicals often." Said Sherlock, in a rush. The Doctor sat back, looking impressed.

"Cuppa tea?" Asked Mrs Hudson with a smile.  
"That'd be excellent." Said the Doctor, sitting down in the apartment's living room, careful not to choose Sherlock's chair. After the three had received their tea, and Mrs Hudson had left, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, curious.  
"You said you'd explain the blank paper?" Said Sherlock.  
"Yup. But it'll take a big leap-"  
"Doctor, I'm used to taking leaps between bits of information." He said, sounding almost bored again.  
"Not this big." He said. "Besides, that's not what I was talking about. Really, logically it should make sense."  
"I'm a very logical man."  
"Logic only goes so far." Warned the Doctor. "Here," he said, tossing Sherlock the paper from before, "blank, yes?"  
"Yes."  
"Get John to have a look. He may disagree." John walked over, and read out loud from the paper:  
"Doctor John Smith, medical advisor." Sherlock frowned. "Can't you see that?" Asked John. The Doctor walked over to them and picked up the paper, then handed it back. John leaned over and read again. "Doctor James McCrimmon, Professor of medical sciences" He read. To Sherlock, the paper still looked blank. "It changed." Said John. "You didn't do anything to it, but it changed." The Doctor took back the paper and placed it in his pocket.  
"It's psychic paper. In reality, it's blank, but I can make it say whatever I want. I can make you _think _it says whatever I want." He told them, sitting back down. "Clever people, or psychic people, see right through it. The only other person I've met who sees it as blank was Shakespeare." He confided. "Though really, I expected a bit more of him. Now, don't get me wrong, he was obviously a genius, absolutely brilliant, but like they say, you should never meet your heroes."  
"You've met Shakespeare?" Asked John. "You can't have met Shakespeare!" Sherlock didn't say anything, but was deep in thought.  
"I get that a lot. Though normally it's 'You can't have been there!' or, mostly just 'That's impossible!'. I'm not normally so specific, you see." Replied the Doctor, sipping his tea. "Your landlady makes excellent tea." He commented with a smile. "Okay Sherlock, that's quite a few more clues for you. Any ideas?" He asked. Sherlock looked up.  
"You're a traveller, that's obvious. Worn out shoes and clothes, but your shoes are more worn out, so you do a lot of running, or walking from place to place."  
"Running. Oh, you have no _idea _how much running is involved." The Doctor laughed. "Next?"  
"No family or friends, at least none that you're in contact with. No luggage with you, not even a bag, which would normally make me think short trip. But your clothes are too worn for that; no, you're more of a backpacker, homeless." The Doctor remained silent. "Right handed, very-"  
"Yes, that's just the boring stuff." Said the Doctor. "Stuff _you_ could know with your eyes closed. Well, not with your eyes closed, but you know what I mean. C'mon, there's a big leap here and you know it, you just don't want to say it. Traveller, no bags, out of date clothes, no obvious form of transport, psychic paper _and I said I met Shakespeare!_" He exclaimed. "I'm not with Scotland Yard, or the secret service, that was just a lie. You know that. Weren't you the one who said that once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"  
"Insane?" Offered John.  
"Oh, come on, you're far from stupid, John. I'm too clever to be insane. Maybe you think you're stupid, I don't know. If you do, you've been spending too much time with him." He pointed at Sherlock. "Anyone'd seem stupid next to him. Well, maybe not Einstein. Or Newton - though, I did have to push him in the right direction for the whole gravity thing. He would've gotten there by himself, I swear, I just helped a bit. No harm done." The two men stared at the Doctor in disbelief. They were both thinking the same thing, but neither wanted to say it.  
"You're implying that you're a time traveller." Said Sherlock finally, after a moment's silence. The Doctor sipped his tea.  
"You're observing that I'm a time traveller." There was more silence.  
"That's impossible." Stated John. "And I've taken to not saying impossible very much anymore."  
"Then why start now?" Replied the Doctor. Suddenly, he grinned. "Do you want to see it?" He asked, excited.  
"See what?" Asked John. Sherlock remained quiet.  
"My time machine. My spaceship. My home. D'you want a look?"

"Well, John, this day may turn out to be interesting after all." Commented Sherlock. The Doctor said his time machine was about half an hour away, so he'd go alone, but he'd be back here within about a minute. "I can't come back too close, crossing timelines is very dangerous." He'd said, before running out the door.  
"Might be? Sherlock, we quite possibly just met a time traveller. And even if he just turns out to be insane, he's at least as clever as you. That's an interesting day." Sherlock huffed.  
"As clever as me? Just because he's good at looking at a dead body? That was a fairly basic one, if you can observe properly."  
"Now then, that's hardly fair! John's clever, he didn't see much of that." Said the Doctor, who had appeared in their doorway. "And I'm just as clever as you, cleverer even, but only because I've got more space up here," he tapped his head, "and that's not your fault, human limitations, after all." Sherlock was essentially speechless. John smiled; he was loving this. Not many people could say things that Sherlock couldn't think up a condescending reply to. It was quite refreshing.

Sherlock and John followed the Doctor out of the building, where he led them to a little side street.  
"Don't tell me that's your 'time machine'." Said John, looking at the blue box in front of him.  
"That's her." Said the Doctor proudly. "TARDIS, T-A-R-D-I-S. Time And Relative Dimension In Space."  
"It's wooden." Said Sherlock, after looking at it carefully. "A wooden replica of a 1950s police box." He said.  
"1960s police box, actually. And not a replica. Well, a replica, but it was 'made' in the 60s." He said. "Landed there, and the cloaking device got jammed. Stuck this way ever since, but I like it. It's grown on me." The Doctor opened the door and went inside, shutting the door most of the way so that neither of them would get a good look inside. After a moment he realised no one was following him, so he stuck his head out the door. "You can come in, if you want. More room than you'd expect." Sherlock and John shrugged at each other, then John opened the door.  
"Shi-Sherlock." He said, catching himself just in time.  
"I can see." The two walked slowly into the TARDIS, looking wide-eyed at their surroundings.  
"It's bigger on the inside!" Whispered John, amazed. The Doctor grinned.  
"I love it when people say that. Best part of an intra-dimensional time-travelling spaceship? People's reactions. Well, second best. Well, really, maybe third best, or fourth. Well, it's pretty good. Up in the top twenty."

* * *

_Hello, everybody! __I apologise for the terrible name. __Yes, I know I should be working on the Berners' House, but I just finished watching Sherlock (It's brilliant. Watch it.) and all I could think about was this. The Doctor plus modern-day Sherlock? LOVE. Steven Moffat, I'm looking at you to somehow make this happen. If we can have Agatha Christie and a murder mystery, Charles Dickens surrounded by ghosts on Christmas, and Shakespeare with witches, then we can have the Doctor and Sherlock Holmes (or maybe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who behaves like Holmes. I dunno.)_

_I had troubles with the Doctor today. Sometimes, he doesn't sound right. I think I fixed most of it, but let me know if anything seems a bit... off. He feels wrong somehow. I don't know when this is set in either of the shows' timelines._

_Enjoy, and remember to review. Next chapter will be up ASAP, but may be a while - school, other stories, life, etc etc._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock walked around the console, his hand trailing across the various knobs and switches. He and John had taken in the TARDIS, amazed, their eyes drinking up the tall, curving columns, the odd green-yellow light, the bumpy golden walls and the console in the centre, covered with hundreds of buttons, switches, knobs and levers. There was so much to _see_, so much to _observe _that Sherlock thought his brain might just overload. The wealth of information he could tell about this man, this Doctor, from a single room was astonishing, even for him. But there was so much more - the Doctor had told them that his TARDIS was almost infinite, capable of accommodating any number of people, as he had put it. Not just that, but there were hundreds of signs that the ship itself was alive - the way the hum of it's engines changed to reflect the mood, the way the Doctor spoke of it (and to it), and the way that John could find his way around easily, as if the layout of the ship changed to guide him. John had asked where a particular room was - the bathroom, or the kitchen - and the Doctor had replied with "I'm not sure, there's heaps of them and they've all probably moved. Just go looking, she'll help you out." The Doctor was in the area Sherlock had decided was the living room, though he wasn't sure. He hadn't actually left the console room himself, there was far too much information to leave just yet. They'd only been in the TARDIS for about 10 minutes, but it felt like far longer.

"Careful there, you pull the wrong switch and the universe might just implode." Warned the Doctor, who had just stepped in to the console room. He stood on the opposite side of the room, smiling at Sherlock's amazement. Sherlock looked up and their eyes met, briefly. Before he spoke, Sherlock looked down again.  
"I'm sorry for your loss." He said, in all seriousness. That was very unlike him, and he wasn't entirely sure why he said it. He understood emotion, yes, he could spot discord in a relationship from a mile away - literally. But when it came to applying it, he always seemed to get it wrong. In hindsight, it was obvious, but he rarely cared enough to correct his mistakes - or, to look at them in hindsight. Emotions were just distractions, for him. This time, however, by gauging the Doctor's reaction, he thought he may have got it right. He meant it, he was sorry, which was another unusual thing for him.  
"You can't know all the details. Not from just this room." Said the Doctor, but he wasn't really sure. Sherlock huffed, and the mood changed.  
"Perhaps not every fine detail, but certainly enough." He replied haughtily. "Do you question my observations?" He asked. The Doctor managed a laugh.  
"No. Questioning Sherlock Holmes? I'd have to be a madman. Well, madder than I already am."

"Doctor?" Came John's hesitant voice from somewhere in the TARDIS, "There's a swimming pool in the kitchen." He said.  
"Oh, is that where it is?" Exclaimed the Doctor. "I've been looking for it for _ages!" _He looked over to Sherlock."Literally." He added. "You let him find it, hmm, but not me?" He said, patting one of the vast columns. The TARDIS hummed, and the Doctor murmured, "Yes, quite."  
"You talk to it." Said Sherlock.  
"Her." Corrected the Doctor automatically, not really listening to Sherlock, staring at the column.  
"I was right, then. I can trust my eyes, even here." Sherlock said, pleased with himself.  
"'Course, why wouldn't you be able to? Logic's logic, whether you're on Earth or Felspoon or somewhere in between. Though, logic's still only part of it. There are lots of different types of logic. Bigger on the inside, that's just as logical as anything on Earth, despite what you think. A man from the 1800s would look at anything from your Earth and call it illogical. Witchcraft." Replied the Doctor casually, still looking distracted.  
"It's alive."  
"She. _She's _alive." Corrected the Doctor again, sighing slightly as he walked away from the column. If he'd been having some sort of conversation with the TARDIS, it was finished now. John emerged from the corridor slowly, soaking wet and scowling.  
"I tripped." He said shortly.  
"Wardrobe's up the big spiral staircase, which is probably through the first door to your left." Said the Doctor, stepping back and putting his hands in his pockets. He paused, tilting his head slightly to the side, then said, "Second left, actually." After a moment, he whined "Well, I was close!" Then, a moment later, "Shut up."  
"You're mental." Said John as he left.  
"All the good geniuses are." He told him, grinning. The Doctor turned to Sherlock, eyes glinting. "After Mr. Watson finds some dry clothes, I do believe we have a murder mystery to solve."

The Doctor had been quite nice, letting Sherlock and John have free roam of the TARDIS. He wouldn't have normally, but the glint in Sherlock eyes, and John's too, surprisingly - he couldn't resist letting them have a peek. It was a chance for him to show off. Well, it was just as much a chance for Sherlock to show off too, he supposed. But they did have a murder mystery to solve, and the Doctor knew that having Sherlock's help would certainly speed up the case. While it hadn't been hard for him to deduce those things about the victim, he'd had to put in a conscious effort, and Sherlock did it all on automatic. Even though he'd never admit it to himself, let alone to Sherlock, he probably needed his help. _Well, no_, he told himself,_ not need_. Appreciated, yes. Needed, no. Probably not.

When John returned, he was wearing clean, dry clothes that looked remarkably like his own. He walked over to the door, and Sherlock followed. The two were about to leave, when the Doctor coughed. The pair turned to face him. He was standing at the console, resting one hand on it.  
"You know, It'd be much faster if we travelled by TARDIS." The Doctor suggested, with a slight shrug. "You're more than welcome to go by taxi, but I'll stay in here. Might take a quick trip to the moon, and I'd still beat you."  
"Seriously?" Asked John, slightly surprised, stepping back toward the centre of the room.  
"Yeah. I think we'll skip the moon this time, though. It's pretty bleak, really. And Mars is just as bad, ugh." The Doctor said, running around the console, flicking switches and turning knobs as he went. He stopped in front of a larger lever and smiled. "You'd best hold on to something." He said, and pulled the final lever dramatically.

"God, couldn't you make it any smoother?" Complained John, rubbing his head as he walked toward the TARDIS doors. The flight had been a particularly bumpy one, and both Sherlock and John had found themselves lying on the floor at one point or another. The Doctor picked up his jacket and put it on as poked his head out, checking that he hadn't overshot the coordinates before letting John and Sherlock outside. It would've been embarrassing if he'd landed them in the 18th century, particularly because they hadn't actually done any time travelling.  
"Smoothly? Takes all the fun out of it." Said the Doctor, stepping out of the TARDIS. They had parked in a small side-street, quiet and nondescript, though the bustle of cars and people could easily be seen and heard, half a block down the road.  
"We've moved." Said John, recognising where they were. "We've moved halfway across London, and it took," John checked his watch, "two minutes."  
"Yeah, well, watches can be dodgy. Relative space-time and all that. But, yes, two minutes." The Doctor sniffed. "And twenty-five seconds."  
"Brilliant." Breathed Sherlock, as he stepped out.  
"Are you impressed?" Asked the Doctor, eyebrows raised.  
"He wouldn't be, the only thing that impresses Sherlock is a particularly clever serial killer." Said John. Sherlock smiled slightly. The three began to walk toward the busy street.  
"Oh, me too. Serial killer, deadly alien, advanced technology that doesn't belong in that time period, that kinda stuff." Said the Doctor casually. "Speaking of which, we need to speak to the people Sophie worked for. And, if she worked for who I think she did, they don't like me. And really, I don't particularly like them either. Far too many guns for my tastes. Point is, I need to call a friend. Could I borrow your phone?"

Sherlock and John watched as the Doctor dialled the number.  
"It's me." Said the Doctor into the phone. He smiled at the response, then said, "No, no time to catch up. I need to have a word with the hub in London. You got any clearance? ...Yes, I know, I guessed that you might be a bit... disconnected from them. Nothing?" The Doctor paused for a moment "No, it can't wait. Besides, you _and_ me? They'd shoot on sight." Another pause, as he listened to the reply. "I know they will. I'll be fine." The Doctor pressed the end call button, handing the phone back to John.  
"No help?" Questioned John.  
"Well, he gave me a person to stay away from, that's slightly helpful." The Doctor ran his hand through his hair. "You two should stay outside. The only reason they didn't kill me last time was because they had a problem that I could fix. And now… well, I only _think _they have a problem that I can fix. So. Too dangerous, you guys can wait out here." Sherlock and John looked at each other.  
"Not a chance." Said John.  
"You think I'll miss this?" Said Sherlock. The Doctor stared at them.  
"Oh all right, but only because I know you'll try to follow me, which would be bad. Just stay close, and _don't wander off._"  
"You say that like I'll be the one following you." Said Sherlock.

"Explain what we're looking for, again?" Asked John. He hated being the one who always asked the questions. It made him feel stupid, even though he knew Sherlock didn't really know what was going on either. The Doctor didn't seem to think he was stupid, which was reassuring, and John had a feeling that the Doctor was someone who was constantly surrounded by questions. They were standing on a street corner, in a busy shopping part of London. Here, there were more people than cars, with plenty of small cafes, clothing shops, and one modern looking skyscraper.  
"We're looking for something you can't see. A spot, or an area, that you don't want to look at. The entrance will be covered in a perception filter. It messes with your mind a bit, makes you not notice things. And it's not like the psychic paper, so Sherlock won't be able to see through it 'cause he's clever." The Doctor explained.  
"So, we're looking for something we can't see." Said John. "Brilliant."  
"There." Said Sherlock, pointing to his left without turning. It was near the skyscraper, a small courtyard area. "I can't remember what was there."  
"It's just -" began John, turning, but Sherlock grabbed him.  
"Do you remember what was there? Without looking." Sherlock asked.  
"No, I mean, yes, it was just a building." John replied. "You can't remember at all?"  
"No, all I can remember is that it was a building. No details."  
"Oh, right, and you can remember every detail of every shop and building in this street?"  
"That shop there," Sherlock said, jabbing his thumb toward the shop directly behind him, without turning, "is called Helio's. Small cafe, menu out the front on a little blackboard. Three specials, mushrooms, chicken, an-"  
"You could've just said yes." Interrupted John.  
"Why say yes when you can show off? Now, come on you two, the sooner we get this over with the happier I'll be." Said the Doctor, walking toward the area that Sherlock had pointed out.

Once John and Sherlock had caught up with the Doctor, he was standing on a large circular tile, just off the footpath. It was a nice, open space, with a few potted plants dotted around the edges. The Doctor was wearing the same glasses that he wore earlier, and was examining the ground carefully.  
"Come on then, there will be plenty of surveillance here, so the quicker the better." He said, gesturing for Sherlock and John to stand on the tile with him. "If I'm right, which I tend to be, I should be able to do this, and..." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver device with a blue light on it, and pressed down the button. The light lit up, and it made a high-pitched whirring noise. The tile they were standing _clunked_, then began to slowly descend. The Doctor smiled, happy with himself.  
"How isn't anyone noticing this?" Said John incredulously.  
"Perception filter. Blocks it out." Said the Doctor.  
"And the silver thing?"  
"Sonic screwdriver." John nodded in a way that made the Doctor think he didn't believe him. They now could no longer see above ground, and it felt to John like going slowly down a well, not sure if they'd make it up again.  
"Why do you wear those glasses?" Asked Sherlock, who had been wondering this for a while. "You don't need them, so why do you wear them?" The Doctor looked over at him, surprised.  
"Um, old habit." He said, with a shrug. "Old, old, old, old, old habit. I used to need them - well, I didn't really, but that's beside the point." He took the glasses off, and put them back in his pocket. "What isn't beside the point is that theres no-one here." He said, looking around and rubbing the back of his neck. The tile had finished its decent, and now the three could clearly see what was a high-tech base of some kind. The walls were painted white, and everything was clean. They were in a hallway, with a large metal door at the end of it.  
"There's something, very, very wrong." The Doctor declared. "We've just walked into an organisation that was kind of made to kill me, and I don't even get a welcoming party?"  
"I'm glad. That sounds like the kind of welcoming party that would, well, kill you." Said John, suddenly worried about they were doing. "Why do they want to kill you?"  
"Hmm? Oh, went back to 1879 one time - actually overshot it, I was aiming for 1979 - and met Queen Victoria, saved her life from an alien werewolf, got knighted then banished. She thought I enjoyed it too much. Consorting with the devil, or something." He said, like it was no big deal. "And I lost a bet." He added as an afterthought, then immediately regretted pulling up that particular memory. "So, she set up Torchwood. Their motto is, essentially, 'What's alien, is ours'. Which I wouldn't have too much of a problem with, if they were nice about it, but all they do is make weapons, to shoot down more aliens, to make more weapons. What they wouldn't give for my TARDIS. Not that they could get in, even with the key. I told her to be on the look out for them." He said, quieter.  
"You told your spaceship to not let them in?" Muttered John, having missed the fact that the TARDIS was alive. Both the Doctor and Sherlock ignored him.  
"And now, you're waltzing straight in to their London base, completely weaponless?" Said Sherlock, speaking for the first time since they were underground.  
"Oh, yes, do it all the time. I'd better go first. Better me shot than either of you." He said, and walked up to the large door.

* * *

_Hello again! First off, just want to say THANKYOU to DrippingPen, who left an incredibly generous review (but he/she doesn't have an account, so this is the only way I can say thanks). That review actually made me bump this story up on my priority list. B - no, wait. Second, this is another long chapter, so let me know if you want shorter ones in the future. Third, this chapter was fun to write, actually. I've never seen the Doctor have a conversation with the TARDIS, and I've never written him having one either. I always imagined the TARDIS being kind of motherly, and maybe slightly disapproving to hide the fact that she loves him madly (in a friendship way!). I also never imagined her talking, but more speaking through emotions/feelings/images rather than words._

_I love criticism, because everyone here seems to be too nice and only says what they like, not what could be improved on. So, **review please!**_

_(Sorry, that was a long note. You're more than welcome to not read it. You don't have to read the next part either.)_

_The TARDIS's side of the conversation? Something along the lines of her thinking he'd be irresponsible if he knew where the pool was, and being for his own good. (The Doctor's telepathic reply was quite different to what he said out loud.) Then something about Sherlock's mind being all neat and tidy and odd (that goes on for a while), and to get on with the murder case.  
Then, she's telling him that it's the second door, then saying something about how after 900+ years, he really should know where the staircase is. Tut tut.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor hesitated at the door, then knocked four times.  
"You're knocking?" Asked John, frowning. The Doctor turned back and shrugged slightly, and knocked again, louder this time. When no-one answered, he sighed, pulling out the psychic paper and holding it up against an ID card reader on the side of the door. A little green light came on with a _beep,_ and the door hissed as it opened. Through the door, the three could clearly see the Torchwood base. Looking around, the Doctor began to wonder whether he was right to bring Sherlock with him. There was no telling what kind of information he could collect down here, but he shrugged it off when he remembered that someone had already died, and more deaths could possibly be on the way.  
"Okay, it looks okay for the moment. You two just stay close - Torchwood isn't allowed to hurt British citizens, really - and _you_," the Doctor turned to face Sherlock, "no looking at anything." Sherlock scoffed in reply, clearly intending to completely ignore him. He was already surveying the room with some interest. It was cram packed with various pieces of alien technology, all neatly organised and packed into crisp, white shelves. There were desks in two lines down the side of the room, each overly tidy, stacks of paper exactly parallel with the edge of the desk, computer screens that lined up perfectly with keyboards. The six desks were identical, all facing away from the door. The Doctor stepped through the doorway. An odd sound began as soon as he took the step, and before anyone could react a yellow laser came from somewhere in room and hit the Doctor square on the chest. He gasped in surprise, stepping back into the corridor before falling to the ground, breathing heavily.  
"Just a stun gun." He managed to wheeze. "Medbay… should be somewhere on this floor. Won't attack you, British citizens. I'll be fine." He gasped, before passing out.

Sherlock, wasting no time, immediately stepped through the door and looked around. John was squatting near the Doctor, not really knowing what to do.  
"Medbay's this way." Said Sherlock from around the corner.  
"A little help, then?" Asked John. Sherlock sighed and grabbed the Doctor's legs, while John grabbed his torso, and together they carried him through the door and around the corner. The medbay consisted of a single bed in the centre of the room, surrounded by benches and cupboards and machinery that John barely recognised. The two put the Doctor down on the bed gently. Sherlock started hunting through the cupboards and benches for medicines. John noticed that one of the machines looked like a heart rate monitor, and began to set it up. Soon the machine was up and running - but the Doctor's heartbeat was wrong. As the machine began to beep, Sherlock stopped what he was doing, looking over to John, checking that he was hearing right. The heartbeat was speeding up, and slowing down, but regularly. Two fast beats, then a pause, then another two beats, then another pause. John bit his lip worriedly, and began to do other checks.  
"Sherlock, he's unwell. It's not good. Blood pressure's far too high, and his body temperature's only 15 degrees Celsius, not to mention the heartbeat… Breathing seems to be regular though." Just as he said this, the Doctor took a deep, ragged breath. He sat up, obviously in pain.  
"Sherlock," he managed. Sherlock ran over to the bed. "No peeking." The Doctor grabbed Sherlock by the shirt, and pulled him forward suddenly. Their foreheads smashed together, and they both howled in pain, moving their hands up to their heads. Sherlock took a couple of steps backwards, bent over, and the Doctor lent back slightly. Neither moved for a second, then Sherlock groaned again, stumbling backwards, then stayed still. After another second, Sherlock breathed out in a huff, and the Doctor collapsed back into a coma. Sherlock straightened, rubbing his head slightly.  
"What the hell was that?" Asked John, frowning.  
"I need some supplies." He said, turning and heading straight for the medical cabinets. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

_"Sherlock," he managed. Sherlock ran over to the bed. "No peeking." The Doctor grabbed Sherlock by the shirt, and pulled him forward suddenly. Their foreheads smashed together, and they both howled in pain, moving their hands up to their heads._

Sherlock found himself being pulled forward suddenly, and his head smashed into the Doctor's with considerable force. He knew that he had stepped backwards, his hands flying to his head - but he didn't feel it. He was falling forward, tumbling downwards through blackness. When he realised he wasn't falling anymore, he looked around, only to find he was nowhere. Other people may have thought he was in a room, painted all the one colour, but Sherlock could tell it wasn't - it was like he was standing in a huge field, at night time, but with no stars, no light, the ground indistinguishable from the sky. He turned around, and saw the Doctor standing in front of him, hands in pockets, a few metres away. He didn't know how he could see him. There was no light source, just the blackness, which was really more of a grey, and the Doctor.

"Sorry about that. Not pleasant." Said the Doctor with a slight smile.  
"Where am I?" Sherlock asked. He didn't like asking that, because he had no clue.  
"I had to bring you down quite far. Normally you wouldn't have to go through the falling thing, but it was the only way, really." He said, ignoring the question. "We've got about 10 minutes or so."  
"Where am I?" Repeated Sherlock, starting to get annoyed.  
"Still in the medbay, the both of us. Physically at least."  
"Physically… is this your mind?" Sherlock asked, making the leap.  
"Yes. Well, kind of. Good job, by the way. That was quick." The Doctor said. He was surprised, though he knew he shouldn't be. This was, after all, Sherlock Holmes.  
"A bit drab." Sherlock commented, looking around at the nothing.  
"What did you expect? That I'd give you free reign through my memories?" The Doctor said, taken aback. "Anyway, the point is, I'm going to tell you how to help me." Sherlock sighed.  
"Not too long. John will be waiting."  
"Ah, but that's the clever bit." Said the Doctor with a smile. "So far, this has taken… oh, I dunno, three milliseconds?" Sherlock's eyes widened. "I brought you down very far. See, you're pretty clever, which is lucky, otherwise we'd be further up and we'd have a quarter of the time. The deeper into your subconscious you go - which is what happens when you dream, and this is technically just a telepathic dream - the faster your brain processes information, therefore, the slower time seems to pass. I said this was my mind, but it's not, really. It's an in-between place, a bit of both of ours. Mainly mine."  
"So why have you done this?" Sherlock asked.  
"Ever since I passed out, I've been storing up energy. Five minutes gives me about 3 seconds of consciousness, which isn't enough time to tell you anything. And if I was out for too long, Torchwood may come back. Which wouldn't be good, as you may imagine. So, telepathic information share it is." The Doctor was oddly serious, despite the un-seriousness of his words, like he didn't really like Sherlock being so close to his mind.  
"Yes. Information share." The Doctor repeated, smiling at Sherlock's silence. "But what I want you to do is fairly complex, and takes more than 10 minutes to explain. So, I'm going to put it straight into your head. Ready?" Asked the Doctor.  
"Straight in?" Sherlock repeated.  
"Yep. Like copy-pasting a word document, rather than typing it out. Hold on." Sherlock felt something odd in his mind, like a whisper of wind. "Ready?" Asked the Doctor, but his voice came from both his mouth and inside Sherlock's head. Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"Yes."  
The memories came fast, flying past, and Sherlock stumbled backwards from the shock, and felt his physical body do the same. If the Doctor hadn't explained what he was doing, he would've thought that the Doctor was just explaining to him normally, but then someone had pressed the 'fast-forward' button on his life. After it was over, Sherlock examined his new memories. It was impossible for him to tell the difference between these and his real ones.  
"Incredible." Said Sherlock. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you just spent 10 minutes explaining that, and we've been down here almost 20."  
"That was the idea. Now, you'll be going soon. Don't worry about me, I can manage to keep my body systems normal, I think."  
"Then you've got some work to do." Said Sherlock. "Blood pressure's too high, your body temperature's only 15 degrees and your heartbeat's not right." He said, but there was something in his eyes that made the Doctor smile.  
"Right. No drugs, either, please."  
"Allergies?" Asked Sherlock slyly, like he was expecting something else.  
"Actually, yeah. Off you go."

Sherlock suddenly found himself leaning over, clutching his head. He let out a breath of air he hadn't realised he was holding, then heard a small thump as the Doctor lapsed back into unconsciousness. He straightened up, brushing down his jacket. He was once again surrounded by the clean, white medbay.  
"What the hell was that?" Asked John, taking a step toward him.  
"I need some supplies." Said Sherlock, effectively ignoring him. He headed straight to the cupboards and began looking through them. "Keep an eye on him, would you?"

* * *

_Hey. Next chapter. Even though I really should be studying for the two tests I have Monday and finishing off my English work.  
Thanks again to DrippingPen, who I can't PM to say thanks because s/he doesn't have an account. You were complaining about a cliffhanger? Imagine if I had've lumped the first paragraph in with that last chapter. Oh, some people may have murdered me. :D  
I know it's a bit shorter than the other two chapters, sorry. _

_And thankyou to EVERYONE who has alerted or favourited this story. :D :D _

_Anyway, review as always. I like reviews. Reviews make me happy. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock carefully collected a drop of an odd blue substance using a pipette, and squeezed it into a beaker full of a hot, clear mixture. As soon as it hit, the liquid in the beaker turned a light brown. He had been working for a good ten minutes, adding different substances to one another, to create this mixture. Just as the Doctor ordered. John had watched quietly from the sidelines, after he realised that Sherlock wasn't going to answer any of his questions. Sherlock stepped back from the bench, and John decided he was finished.  
"Done then?" John asked, hoping he'd get some answers now. "Whatever it was that you were doing."  
"Yes. It's finished. Though, in all honesty, I'm not one hundred percent sure what it will do." He admitted. "It's some sort of heated tannin-theanine-theobromine-theophylline-polyphenol compound." He said, holding the beaker up to the light. "I know what it is, but it's effect? I can't predict." He continued, almost speaking to himself.  
"Then why did you make it?" Asked John, exasperated.  
"The Doctor told me to." He said, which just confused John even more. "Telepathic information transfer." Sherlock carefully picked up the beaker and made his way over to the Doctor's bed. John stood behind, utterly bewildered.  
"Telepathic…" He repeated, uncertain he had heard Sherlock correctly.  
"Shush." Replied Sherlock, tipping a small amount of the beaker's contents into the Doctor's mouth. There was a beat of silence, then the Doctor took in a deep breath. His eyelids flickered, and Sherlock gave him more. The Doctor reached up and took the beaker off Sherlock. After another mouthful, he opened his eyes and sat up.  
"Mmm, lovely. Good job." He said, taking another mouthful. The Doctor noticed he was connected to the heart monitor, and quickly unplugged himself. John frowned, ignoring his other questions for the moment.  
"That smells familiar." John said. The Doctor turned to him, eyes wide with innocence. "It smells like tea." He continued, surprised. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
"You had me make you _tea_?" He said, annoyed. The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck.  
"Well…"  
"Tea? Really? You telepathically mind-shared just to have me make you _a cup of tea!" _Sherlock was outraged.  
"No." Said the Doctor indignantly. "I had you make me a highly concentrated and effective cup of tea." He said, finishing the last of it.  
"Tea… You couldn't have just said, 'get me some tea'?"  
"No. Because it wouldn't have worked. Maybe a little, but certainly not enough. Besides, you should be grateful. The human race doesn't discover how to accurately synthesise plant extract for a good hundred years or so. You just got a view of the future. Sort of." The Doctor swung his legs around to get out of bed.  
"Oh? And when do we figure out telepathy, exactly?" Sherlock asked, scathingly. The Doctor rubbed his chin.  
"Ohh, about the year 3000 or so? 'Course, there's not ever much more than a basic understanding."  
"What you did didn't seem very basic." Sherlock said, challengingly.  
"Sorry, what are you on about?" Cut in John, deciding to break his silence. He had made the wise decision of staying out of their 'discussion' earlier, but now he was completely lost,  
"I telepathically told Sherlock to make to make me tea. Well, super tea." Said the Doctor casually, pulling out his sonic screwdriver. Ignoring John's disbelieving face, he aimed it at the ceiling, adjusting the settings. He then pushed the button, and after a few seconds of buzzing there was a _whoosh _noise, followed by a clunk. "Just disarmed the hub." He said, walking off in the direction of the main room. He motioned for John and Sherlock to follow him. "Having Torchwood not here is actually a good thing. Now I can get into their databases without having to ask." The Doctor put his glasses back on. "Because I'm sure they wouldn't let me. Now." He began examining one of the multiple computers in the room, fiddling with the sonic screwdriver. Sherlock and John, not knowing how to hack computers, watched quietly from a few metres back.

There was a few moments of silence before Sherlock decided to talk.  
"He's not human." Sherlock whispered to John.  
"What do you mean? Of course he's human." Said John quietly. The Doctor smiled, his back to the two of them.  
"He's not." Said Sherlock, sure of himself. "He didn't do a good job of hiding it either." The Doctor turned slightly, and gave Sherlock an appraising look from behind his glasses.  
"It's not like I was trying to." He said, loud enough for the pair to hear, then turned back to the computer. John was completely shocked.  
"But… He's not really..." He whispered. "How'd he hear us?"  
"I would image that he has superior hearing." Sherlock said, still whispering.  
"Yup." The Doctor said over his shoulder.  
"You're not really… an alien, are you?" Asked John, louder. The Doctor turned.  
"Sorry." He said with a slightly apologetic grin. Sherlock and John moved closer, to a reasonable conversation distance.  
"How did you...?" John asked, bewildered, addressing Sherlock, who sighed.  
"Do we have to go through this?" He asked, already bored of the conversation.  
"Yes." Said John firmly.  
"Actually," said the Doctor, turning around to moving to an acceptable conversation distance, "I'd like to hear this myself." Sherlock sighed again, this time longer and more exaggerated.  
"It really was quite obvious." He began. John, who was used to his condescending behaviour by now, barely blinked. "The most obvious was the medical evidence. High blood pressure, low temperature, irregular heartbeat; yet the Doctor was convinced he was fine."  
The Doctor replied with a smile that seemed to say 'well then, what's next?'  
"But I had my suspicions before that. Time travel was a hint, but the possibility of you being a _human _time traveller was just as likely as an alien. Next was, of course, your comment just as you got back: 'human limitations, after all'" He quoted dryly. "Human limitations. That was an obvious one. Then, there's the way you walk. Long strides, very confident and almost condescending, the way you look as if you've seen all this before."  
"Well, I have." The Doctor interrupted.  
"Sherlock, you can't say he's an alien by the way he walks. _You _walk like that, for God's sake!"  
"Well," replied Sherlock with a slight shrug. John's eyes widened, and he took a half step back.  
"_You're_ not an alien, are you?" He asked. The Doctor laughed at that.  
"No, he's not. Absolutely not. I'd know." He said.  
"Oh, really?" Said Sherlock, annoyed at his overconfidence.  
"Absolutely. I can tell things like that, most of the time," he explained, tapping his temple, "though normally it's very faint, and, honestly, very limited. Mainly for telling the difference between Timelords - that's me, by the way, what I am - and all the other humanoid lifeforms out there. But you, Sherlock Holmes, you're practically screaming human! Human, human! Oh, but that's a brilliant thing!" He added, seeing Sherlock's slightly miffed reaction. "Why do you think I keep coming to Earth? Not just because it seems to have a talent for getting into trouble. For the people! Certainly not for the sights. I mean, don't get me wrong, Earth is wonderful and all, but it's nothing compared to the mountains of Felspoon, or the 51st Century space station colonies, or even Jupiter - oh, I haven't been there in _years! _I'll have to visit soon. Just as long as I avoid the seventies."

The computer behind the Doctor beeped loudly, cutting him off. "Aha!" He cried, running over to the computer screen. "Found ya! Come and have a look." Sherlock walked right over to the screen, peering over the Doctor's shoulder, but John hesitated.  
"Come on, John, I won't bite." He said. "Same as ever, see?" John quickly walked over, slightly embarrassed. The three lent in, taking in the information on the screen.  
"Sophie Dove worked for Torchwwod - I'm glad she does, other wise I'd look very silly indeed -" began the Doctor, "on the Socius project. Communicating to a rather friendly alien race." He muttered, scrolling through the text. "How very un-Torchwood." He said, pleasantly surprised. "Brilliant! And she was doing a good job, too. Oooh, look, lovely. Made contact, started to communicate, and the very first thing she says? She proposes a treaty! An alliance! So why was she killed?"  
"Maybe…. Someone didn't want the alliance to happen?" Suggested John.  
"Ooh, yes, that's good, but who wouldn't want an alliance? Why would any human stop that?" He paused for a moment, turning around to look at John and Sherlock. "Wait, never mind." John looked offended and turned to Sherlock, who simply shrugged.  
"We're not _that _bad." Said John. The Doctor chuckled.  
"Well, maybe not you two. Problem is, the human race isn't all like you." John smiled, but then shuddered slightly, imagining a world full of Sherlocks. "And I've had the displeasure of meeting the very worst of you lot," the Doctor scrolled down Sophie's file, "and it was not fun."  
"That is irrelevant." Said Sherlock haughtily, bored. He was also slightly annoyed at the Doctor's show-offy banter, the offhand comments that made John's jaw drop - and would've made his drop too, apart from the fact that his self control was far better than that. "What we should be concentrating on is the murder." He pointed out.  
"Yes. True." The Doctor agreed. "Murder, murder, murder." He muttered thoughtfully. "The aliens they were talking to weren't even bad - in fact, they were one of the few species in this sector that would be willing to make an alliance. And I don't care how prejudiced humans can be, whatever cause Sophie Dove to die certainly didn't come from Earth. They won't be able to find any cause of death, no matter what examinations they do." The Doctor sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I have a feeling that there's a third party involved."

* * *

_Hey everybody! Sorry about the long wait. :( I know it's been... what? A month? This chapter probably isn't long enough to warrant that wait, is it?_

_I... I don't have an excuse. Be angry at me, just don't take it out on the story! Still review! :D_

_So not many developments yet, as far as the plot; except for the alien thing. Anyway._

_Thanks in advance to the anonymous reviewers - actually, advance thanks to the reviewers full stop! (Ha, see what I did there? If I assume people will review, then they'll feel obliged. Now you feel obliged! *evil laugh*)_


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